Then she uttered a strangled, ‘Espéce de bête!’ and burst into tears. Too much, perhaps. The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable. She felt like Snow White in a secret forest house populated by dwarves. You will have to tell me.
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